


You'll Need Those Fingers For Crossing

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [47]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: F/F, Foe Yay, Gallifrey, Gen, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallifrey falls no more, sure, but someone needs to help it stay on its feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Need Those Fingers For Crossing

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: Clara and the General, though. The General's TRYING to put things back together, fix the web of time and whatever, but Clara's having none of that. Turns into universe wide game of hide and seek. (Maybe Clara lets herself get caught sometimes, but she always gets away again.)

A young boy runs up to the edge of the transduction barrier. An outlander, a Shobogan, clothes dusty and tattered. He bangs on the checkpoint window: four knocks, until the guard wakes up.

“He’s back,” the boy says. “And he went around.”

“Who’s back?”

The boy fidgets, staring down at his shoes and then quickly, boldly through the scarred window. “Him. The man. He came out of nowhere, he told me to come, but my mum said never to come here because that’s how people like us get killed, so please don’t kill me. Sir.”

Somewhere, quite far away, up in the higher reaches of the Citadel: an agent is listening in. Her fingers hover over the wiretap connection link button on her computer, then drift over the ‘Report’ button. It could be nothing. It could be everything. She stares into the face of the boy, and the face of the guard, then glances over to her other monitor displaying the Precog readouts. The feed is spiking.

A few microspans later, the bells start ringing.

 

* * *

“I’m staging a coup,” the Doctor says.

Narvin rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course you are, that’s what you do, isn’t it, always swanning in and-”

“Narvin. _Narvin_. I know we have our differences. I know it’s been a very, very, very long time. But I still know you, Narvin. At least I hope I do. Tell me you haven’t changed that much. Tell me you still stand for Gallifrey. And please, please tell me this is not what you know, in your hearts, that Gallifrey should be.”

Silence. Dust shifting around them, that peculiar homesick turn of the planet underneath.

“I’m doing this for Gallifrey,” the Doctor says. Massages his temple between thumb and forefinger. “This isn’t about me, this is about-”

“It’s always about you,” Narvin interrupts. “But two birds with one stone, as your humans say.”

There’s a pause. A long, awkward pause. They stare at everything except for each other, shove their hands into their pockets. They’re about to make history and neither of them has ever been particularly comfortable with that.

The Doctor breaks the silence, finally. “So I’m back. Been a while, huh. Don’t expect I’m the only one. I’m pretty sure I saw Drax, down in that crowd. All the birds came home to roost, eh?”

“Some of them, yes. Not all.” Narvin’s expression is tight, transparent in its desire to not reveal anything at all. “Braxiatel, for example, is still MIA. We lost track of him after - well. You know how it was.”

The Doctor nods.

 

* * *

“He’s completely crazy,” Narvin says. Very confidential, hush-hush. “But I suppose you’d expected that.” He leans in briefly for a wink-nudge, then scampers off. Completely indiscreetly. This is the once and future head of the CIA, can’t leave a room without making every noise possible.

The General sighs, and considers how that’s a fair representation of Gallifrey, really. Nobody knows what they’re doing. No one is any good at anything. If they were, this shitstorm wouldn’t have happened.

The Doctor is looking very pleased with himself. Leaning back on Rassilon’s throne, picking at the threads of the sash. That sash can kill people, has killed people, and yet, here he is, fiddling with it like it’s a scarf. Figures.

“So,” the General starts. And pauses, wondering how to possibly proceed. Considering the nonsensical circumstances. “About the girl.”

“What girl?”

“The girl in your head. The human. We’ve witnessed your confession, Doctor.”

“We, we. Who’s ‘we’? The High Council? The CIA? Some new bureaucratic organization you’ve invented just to make everyone’s lives more difficult? And come to think of it: who sent that confession dial, anyway? Who made it?”

“Rassilon ordered it made.”

“But who _made it._ ”

“It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re wondering. Not my area of expertise. Do you want me to give you the name of the person who did? Would you like to track them down and punish them?”

The Doctor stops unraveling the sash, looks up, then looks away. Something heavy and heartsbreaking in his face. “No, no,” he says. “Won’t be necessary. Just. Promise me you won’t do it again?”

 

* * *

The girl comes back and everything goes haywire and he’s dead, he’s dead, the General is dead, but then she picks herself up off the ground and onto her feet, and she moves on. She has to move on. For Gallifrey, for time itself.

 

* * *

Things happen. Events progress. Events progress so far beyond her predictions she kind of just gives up, falls back into her training. Yes, the Doctor has done something catastrophically stupid and completely bizarre. Yes, it’s her job to clean up the mess. They leave - she realizes in an instant what that could mean, all the implications. Another rogue TARDIS. The Doctor, this human girl, the universe outside so ready to snap its jaws around Gallifrey and finish it off once and for all.

The TARDIS is going, and going, and it can’t possibly be _gone_ -

She slams the button on her communicator. “Recall them,” she shouts. “Do I need to spell everything out? Hold your hands? Do your bloody jobs or I swear to Omega-”

“Tried that, ma'am,” Altrelumnar says. Her face frightened but countenance steady, the distillation of a culture miniature and almost too clear on the General’s comm. “We nearly had them, but the link was severed. I don’t know how, but they managed to break free. They’re gone, ma'am. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says curtly. “Just do better next time.”

This is not the most upsetting thing to have happened today, by far. The universe is in upheaval, the timeline is on fire, there are more pressing concerns. But it’s like the last strand on the vortisaur’s back. One final mistake, just to rub it in. The world will end one disappointment at a time.

 

* * *

The High Council is adjourning, filing out through their temporary headquarters. A half-dozen Time Lords mixed among them who might shortly be the president. The walls are soundproof but it’s clear enough there’d been some arguing. The High Council is nervous and short-tempered at best, even when they’re not comprised of second-rate Cardinals called up last-minute after a coup.

The General is watching them go, figuring out her options and entries with this new group. Narvin is doing the same. They meet each others’ eyes across the hallway.

“General.” He nods at her, half-deferentially, half-ironically. “I hate that title, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think, Narvin. I didn’t change my name for you. I changed it-”

“In solidarity, I know.”

“And because I was tired of being me. I saw a window of opportunity to be someone who did what had to be done, no questions asked, and so help me, I took it.” She ducks out of the way of a rampaging page, comm pad in hand, towards his cardinal. Doesn’t even say ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’, the little shobogan.

“You’re trying to convince yourself it was the right decision.”

“I know what I’ve done and I accept it. I don’t have to convince myself of anything.”

“The war is over,” he says. Eyes wide, like this is something that matters to him, like it hurts him to see her however it is he sees her. “You don’t need to be the General anymore. _We_ don’t need the General anymore.”

“My personal preferences have very little to do with your opinions, Narvin.” She feels bad, just a little, at the way his face falls.

“Of course. My apologies.” He bows, and walks slowly, deliberately away.

 

* * *

“There’s a problem, ma'am.” The face on her viewscreen is terribly young. A guard, loom-born under Rassilon’s ‘New Gallifrey’ plan. The frantic look of confusion would be a giveaway, even if the emblem on his armor wasn’t.

She feels like she should know his name. The nametag is just a number, but surely he has a proper name. They’ve met before, she thinks, and it’s most likely too late now. And besides: there’s a problem.

“Of course there is,” she sighs, then catches herself. “Summarize the details for me, please.”

“The Raven and the Anchor, ma'am. They’ve found the tracker. And they’ve sent a message.”

 

She watches the message in the privacy of her quarters. Doors locked, communicator on silent, blinds drawn. She’s not entirely sure why, but she doesn’t want to share this moment. Always a bit of a mess, the first few macro-spans of a regeneration.

The video is fuzzy, passed back and forth between a variety of encryptions, inexpertly shunted across a universe, an infinity. The woman on pause and the immortal, side by side, their shoulders brushing - twin looks of cocky defiance, the sense of something shared between them.

“Fool on us, I suppose, for not thinking to check for bugs,” says the slightly taller one.

She checks her notes: Clara Oswald, of Earth, ex-associate of the Doctor. 29 Earth-years of age, approximately, at last known temporal alignment.

“I told you we should do a sweep,” says the slightly shorter one. Rolling her eyes. This is a familiar argument.

Notes again: Me, formerly Ashildr, the ageless rock unsmoothed by the waters of time. The fixed point. She tries not to shudder - it is not this woman’s fault, her impossible permanence. She should not be judged for the Doctor’s sticky fingers stuck clumsily into the web of time. But still, it isn’t _right_ -

“You did say that, and you were right, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because the tracker is turned off now, and if you haven’t found us yet, you never will.” Clara looks so very pleased with herself.

“Just try me,” the General mutters under her breath.

 

* * *

With the tracker off and the call-back broken and, apparently, a fairly decent broom swept behind the mess they leave in the vortex, there’s no technological way of following them. There are other ways, though.

The General has a team in place. Branches of the Matrix devoted to the task, occasional use of the telescopes and satellites, the temporal-displacement sensors, the Precogs. _Operation Roost_ , one of her operators calls it, and though she corrects them - Edict 1837-Q-7R, get it right or turn in your notice - she does appreciate the poetry of it.

They don’t find much. A few hints here and there. It’s difficult, being so removed, to follow the intricacies of the universe outside their bounds. They check for anomalies - cross-check against all other known renegade activity - they whittle it down. A space-station blown up here, a race of giant winged pigrat-things saved there. The foam left in their wake.

 

* * *

She’s doing a routine drop-by. That’s what you do, for projects you oversee. Put the fear in them, relight the fires under their arses, make sure actual work is actually being done. The department is clean, if a little cluttered. They’re doing their jobs, mostly. Even if they all jerk their postures upright when she walks through the door.

Narvin is there, of course he’s there. He’s always under her feet. Probably hacks into her planner to find out where she’ll be. Why, she’s not sure. She could hazard a guess, though.

“It’s just like old times,” he says. “Attempting to bring back a renegade TARDIS, expending far too many resources in order to prove that we hold sway over all of time and-”

“Shut up, Narvin,” she says. Cuttingly, curtly. Mixed emotions about the way his face falls. “It’s bad enough with the Doctor and the Master - _Missy_ \- on the loose. Another piece of evidence of Gallifrey’s survival running amuck, in the hands of humans. Please don’t tell me you don’t understand what a serious security breach that is.”

“I understand,” he says. “Only we’ve already spent so much time and effort on hiding ourselves, or reclaiming our legacy, or whatever it is we’re calling this nowadays, and so little on fixing what’s actually broken. Gallifrey is broken, General. But that’s fine, isn’t it, so long as it doesn’t tarnish our reputation.”

He’s angry, now. As he tends to get. The CIA robes don’t fit as well as they had, once. She’s heard the stories, she can imagine the weight he is carrying around. Romana gone who knows where, Leela somewhere out in the wastelands. His friends have left him here, or he has left his friends; either way he struggling here, in the Citadel. Struggling to hold on to what he was, what Gallifrey was, what he imagines Gallifrey should be. So idealistic, still, and she appreciates that about him. But this is not about his idealism.

“It is a security breach,” she repeats slowly, carefully, enunciating each syllable. “It is my job to protect Gallifrey from outside threats. Threats that come from within Gallifrey? That’s your job, Narvin. Do not fault me for failing to fulfill _your_ responsibilities.”

He affects something he most likely intends to be an obsequious smile as she sweeps out of the room.

 

* * *

Another day, another message. This time, it’s nearly mocking. It would be entirely mocking if she didn’t have a strange intuition that Clara was, what. Lonely? Intrigued?

“So who am I speaking with?” she asks. She’s alone, now, no Me to back her up. Alone and impeccably dressed, makeup immaculate. Like she’s showing off. Trying to impress somebody.

The General should not respond. She should not swoop back into the Operation Roost department and ask if it’s possible to open the comm line in the other direction, if it’s possible to converse. And when they set that up for her - some gobbledigook about wavelengths and back doors and transtemporal pipelines - she should not retire to her quarters, to be alone when she does this.

But she does. Her hair combed neat, her robes carefully arranged. She starts the program on her personal Matrix access panel and watches it dial in, anticipating the connection in a way that by now she really should have a name for.

The link clicks in.

“Oswald’s Eats, good food and good cheer, come try our worlds-famous pancakes.”

“Clara Oswald,” the General says. Is that sultry, what she’s doing now? Is that the tack she’s taking? “How have you been?”

“This is Gallifrey, isn’t it.” Clara leans away, looking presumably at some antique bit of info-readout technology. “It is. And it’s you. It’s been you the whole time, hasn’t it. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

The General nods. “It’s been me, yes. Via a group of operatives. But I’ve been the one running the show. You haven’t answered my question.”

“How am I, you mean? Well, you know. You’ve been watching. I’ve been fantastic.” She grins, flips her hair. Strikes a pose. Fantastic, indeed.

“You’ll have to bring that TARDIS back one day, you realize,” the General says. “This can only end one way. All I have to do is wait.”

“And you’ll be waiting for a very long time,” Clara says. She grins again, something almost daring in it. _Come on, come and get me, if you can._

“We’ll see,” the General says, then cuts the line.

Her quarters seem empty and quiet, now. She breathes in slowly, feeling the oxygen work its way through her body.

 

* * *

“There’s been another riot at the walls,” Narvin says. Or yells. Is at least a little worked-up about, anyway.

“Of course there has. There always is. Once again, Narvin: that is not my job. I’m not responsible for - ”

“They’re dying out there. The High Council is a farce and people are.” He breaks off, swallows hard. “I know it’s not your job. But you should care. I know you believe in Gallifrey, and that? That isn’t Gallifrey. That isn’t something any self-respecting citizen can watch and do nothing about.”

“So what should I do? Bring the troops in? Tear down the government, again? I don’t know how to help, Narvin. It’s not my area of expertise. I could renounce my title and go fight with the outlanders, is that what you want?”

“I want,” he says shakily. “I want you to give a damn.”

“I’m not Romana,” she says. She’s trying very hard to be kind. “If you’re looking for a hero, I’m not it. I’m a soldier. I do what Gallifrey asks of me.”

“And Gallifrey is asking you to put aside all your blasted training and try, just _try_ to make a difference.”

“It’s not my job,” she says for the thousandth time. And: “It’s not in me. I am not a part of your fight. Stop looking to me for guidance and just…do what it is you have to do.”

Narvin visibly bites back a retort, and nods, and leaves. Something steadier about him, now. Something determined.

The General wonders if she’s made a mistake.

 

* * *

“So how’ve you been?” Clara asks. She’s eating something, little brown tablets shoved into her mouth a handful at a time. Crackers? Biscuits? One of those.

“Busy,” the General replies.

“Lots of stuff going on there, then?”

“Enough to keep me occupied.”

“So why,” Clara says, popping another whatever into her mouth. “Are you spending so much time on me?”

She doesn’t have a good answer for that.

“When are we gonna meet, General? Or are you too scared to meet me face-to face?”

“I’m not scared,” the General replies evenly. “I literally cannot leave. The boundaries of the time-lock are too solid.”

“But Missy got out, and the Doctor got in, and him and I left scot-free. Can’t leave Gallifrey without all of time and space collapsing, right? And yet - here I am, beyond your boundaries. So tell me again. Why don’t you come and stop me? If I’m such a security concern.”

The General could lie again, could repeat the party line. She could say, _because I enjoy this, I enjoy the chase, for whatever reason I enjoy you._ She doesn’t say any of that, though. She just narrows her eyes and shakes her head, and cuts the line.

 

* * *

“We’d appreciate any help you could give,” Narvin says. His voice is fuzzy, relayed along however many barely-functional towers.

“You know I can’t,” she says. She imagines his face falling. “I would, if I could, but I can’t.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask. And if you ever change your mind. The outlands will welcome you, I’ll make sure of that.”

“I’ve no doubt that you will.” She hangs up. Stares blankly at her comms panel, Matrix access panel. All the knowledge of all the Time Lords there’d ever been, at her fingertips. If only she could figure out the right question to ask.

 

* * *

The High Council is meeting. The High Council, such as it is, is assembled in a room far less grand than the Panopticon. Needs must, in a post-war society. The President for now is a small, angry young woman. On her third body, the General thinks - not that young, but young enough. Not loom-born, but old blood. A traditional Cerulean, the General’s surprised they even make those anymore.

Delvox, sweating discreetly, chafing visibly against the collar and sash. She’d been the first in line, after everyone important had been sent packing. She’d overseen the Citadel’s parks, before. Now she was, ostensibly, running the planet. A figure-head, really, the front for a dozen different concerns, the CIA and the military and the Sisterhood of Karn and all the rest.

The General goes up to her, after her address, and touches her gently on the arm. “I’m here for you,” she says. “If you ever need my assistance.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine on my own,” the president says. And she leaves, accompanied by the High Chancellor.

(The High Chancellor shoots her a glance as they go: _you are not wanted, you are not needed. You are a relic of the past._ He smiles, and waves, and she crushes down her petty resentment as they walk past.)

 

* * *

“I’m thinking about defecting,” she says.

“Yeah?” Clara has a new hairdo, something short and aggressive but oddly cute.

_Cute_ , there’s a word she doesn’t use much.

“Gallifrey is going down that old familiar path of self-destruction, and Omega help me, but I just don’t care. They don’t need me anymore. They wouldn’t miss me.”

“I think you do care,” Clara says. She looks offscreen: to Me, maybe. To a read-out screen. To a world, in general, outside their very narrow connection.

“And what would lead you to that conclusion?”

“I dunno. Just a feeling. I’ve come to trust those feelings, though.” Clara pauses, stares so directly through the screen that the General is convinced she can see her, really see her, straight through her soul.

“So what would you have me do? Stop trying to bring you in, I assume. Focus on the more important things. Let you go free.”

“Do whatever you think is best,” Clara says. It’s almost like she means it.

And the General considers that, after the call has ended, the path between her and Clara thoroughly scrambled. Do whatever you think is best. So what is best, on this flaming wreck of a planet? What should she do? What _would_ she do, if no one were there to order her around?

 

* * *

“You came,” Narvin says. He looks thinner, older, impossibly tired. He looks right, somehow. Where he’s meant to be, finally. “Didn’t expect that.”

“You invited me. I came. You really shouldn’t be surprised.” The General smiles tentatively. “How can I help?”

A weight lifts visibly from his shoulders. That poorly-disguised sigh of relief. “Oh, all sorts of ways. First things first, though, the bomb your High Council approved yesterday - the field hospital needs hands.”

Gallifrey is burning, and Gallifrey is broken, and she can’t fix it. She can be here, though. She can do something to help at least. She figures she owes the universe that much, all the things that she’s done. Clara, Ashildr, all the concerns adrift outside the barrier - she can deal with that later. For now, she rolls up the sleeves of her robes, and gets to work.


End file.
